Caedmon was an early English Christian poet who lived in Whitby in the 7th century. The writer of this blog has no pretensions to such exalted gifts, and for this reason (as well as the fact that the name has already been taken) has chosen his Cat. They say that a cat can look at a king; this cat certainly does that. He's also had a good Christian education from his master, and he's quite prepared to use it when necessary.
Friday, 29 July 2011
Little rays of sunshine beam through the leaden cloudscape that shrouds the lovely Kingdom of Northumbria, providing welcome shafts of light in an otherwise gloomy and doom-laden existence. As I mentioned the other day, the Most Esteemed Prince Ruprecht Evil-Merodach appeared before members of the Witangemot to give an account of himself in the light of the recent Great Eavesdropping Scandal. During the proceedings I related how a young buck delivered some fast food to the Prince with the intention of feeding it to him personally. This was an act of profound humility and obeisance that is almost equal to the act of washing someone's feet - and here in Northumbria, that's not a task undertaken without considerable personal nasal discomfort, and by virtue of my relative height from the ground, I can attest that I know what I'm talking about...
Anyway. The young man in question appeared before the Moot today, to answer to the charge of assault - a result of a misunderstanding by the Costumed Thugs, who in a leisurely fashion apprehended him following the event. This wasn't before he received a devastating blow to the jaw from the delicate but deadly fist of Rupie's spouse, the inscrutable Princess Wilma. It seems to me that if any person endeavours to perform such an act of service as this young noodle, he or she should prepare to weigh up the risks beforehand. By definition, service involves a high degree of sacrifice on the part of the servant. And for his trouble, he faces the likelihood of a custodial sentence, where lice, fleas, bread and water are served for breakfast. Since he's a magic mushroom-chewing devotee of the pustule-adorned Guardy-Ann and admirer of the poisonous sentiments that seep from her twisted mouth and pen, it's unlikely that he'll be enjoying the transient delights of fungal hallucination during his incarceration. It's all so sad, but I can't help a little chuckle at times; it must be the catmint.. ;-)
And tomorrow we have the Greatest Royal Wedding Since The Previous One in the untamed regions of Caledonia, where the invited guests will witness the joining in marriage of the aristocratic horsewoman Princess Ziggurat and vulgar commoner Mebeverin Of Tinwald, a professional pursuer of oval pigs' bladders. The Pouring Of The Sacred Potion will follow, and the dancing of slip jigs at the Ceilidh afterwards will be followed by The Thumping Of Many Heads the next morning. Sounds like fun. I wish I were going - I positively adore Arbroath Smokies. And I rather fancy dancing on heads myself...
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